Timeless - Daisy Banks

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hand and slapped his face. Did he need anything more to tell him he must live this way? He would be alone for the millennia it took for his spirit to succumb to the rules of the universe in which he had the misfortune to live. Downing the rest of the coffee, he considered whether he ought to control the need flowing so hot in his blood with medication. He’d done it before, and the opium had freed him from much of the pain.

      No. He paced out of the kitchen, headed from habit up to his study. Something about this sudden invasion, from so intriguing a woman, made him want to go all the way, find out how this beautiful jewel among the flotsam of humanity had come to him. Could she be the savior he’d once dreamed Julia was? What might happen, when he dreamed tonight?

      At his desk, he pulled open the console of his computer and saw the e-mail from Miss S. Armstrong. S, what did it stand for? Sam? Sarah? Sexy? Screw me? He’d not be surprised at any or all of those.

      As he’d asked, she’d suggested three possible dates for meetings regarding the film shoot, which she’d scheduled for the beginning of November. At least, he’d made his point. He studied the screen. The desire to see her again in the flesh made his mouth dry. Denial proved a mere folly, useless. She’d invaded his world. Now there must be some reckoning between them.

      He hit Reply and wrote Miss S. Armstrong an invitation for a second visit on either Tuesday or Thursday next week, larding it with the suggestion she might wish to view more of the grounds which could be suitable for the film shoot, on a better, drier day. Moreover, he’d like to discuss... What would he like to discuss? The way her eyes gleamed and called him, how she aroused his body with her luscious fragrant appeal. How he’d love to... His erection throbbed.

      No. Concentrate on the damn email. He’d like to give her the opportunity of viewing both the dining room, which she hadn’t seen on her last visit, and the small private chapel.

      Yours... He shook his head. Best regards... Not enough. He needed something to pique her interest, lure her to him, and deleted the humdrum phrase.

      You will like what you see, he wrote instead.

      The words flew from his fingers, and before he could stop himself, he hit Send. The bait was laid. To still the need for more of her, he took a long walk in the damp gardens.

      Today was one of those unusual days when the moon, a pale washed-out splotch, hovered in the sky some way from the sun. The wretched thing. How far was it from full? At least another two weeks would pass before he let the beast take all his control from him. Then he’d chain himself in the darkest recess of the cellar, or give in to the sheer lust for blood, and kill. Over the years, he’d tried both methods and satisfaction came only in one way.

      If she came to the house next week, it was well before his savage need would make him the monster in truth.

      The housekeeper had left his lunch in the study, as he usually ate there. On his return, he found his appetite for food gone. He checked his email. Nothing from her, and he thumped his fist on the roll top desk.

      The email program running in the background, he continued his other research activities. Hope shot through him with the irritating little bling announcing an email delivered. He opened it immediately. Not from Miss Armstrong.

      “Bloody hell, woman! Answer your damn mail.”

      He closed the message from the local garden center whose staff replaced the floral displays at the front of his house twice each year. Right now, he didn’t care if the winter display had a focus on red or orange.

      By seven, he’d given up, refused the meal Mrs. Tyson offered before she left for the night, and stared at a Carrara marble statue on his computer screen without really seeing it. When Miss S. Armstrong’s reply came, he answered it and agreed Tuesday next week would be fine. Best Regards,

      Magnus Johansson.

      Only as he looked at the small box claiming sent mail, did he realize she’d responded. He’d won himself another day and a chance to find out more about the delightful, delicious Miss Armstrong. “Can you run, honey?” he whispered into the darkened study where the night sky reflected the few lit lamps. “Of course you can, but not fast enough. I’m going to catch you tonight.”

      Anticipation ticked with his heartbeat as he lay down to sleep. Tonight, he’d lead the dream and find her.

      * * * *

      Sian sank into the bath and let the heat soothe her tired muscles. She’d spent the whole day on the computer, worked until her shoulders ached. Even though she’d gotten up two or three times, the long list detailing every tiny movement on a running order for Richard and the others, for the band and the girls who’d appear in the film, had taken a heavy toll. And she was sick of Gothic. Laying her head on a comfortable bath pillow, she tilted her neck from side to side and closed her eyes. “Give me a beach to laze on,” she murmured. “Ohh.”

      The beach stretched out for miles, pale sands smoothed up to gray cliffs where breaking waves pounded. The setting sun spilled rose highlights over the waves, golden splashes of color smeared into the end of day sky, where above, in brilliant, deepening azure, the first stars shone like pearls. To her left was a mass of tropical forest, and Count Johansson bounded from the luscious greenery. She gulped. Mr. Magnus Johansson. Six-foot-three, dark haired, muscular and nearly naked but for a pair of cut-off jeans, Count Johansson strode with the power of a hunting panther across the beach.

      “Magnus?” she whispered the unfamiliar word, but couldn’t tear her gaze from his approach. His fast stride, long and purposeful, covered yards of the distance between them in a short snap of her rapid heartbeats, and when she took in the yellow flecks in his determined dark eyes, savage, raw energy gripped her.

      She breathed out with a nervy squeak. If she stood here, there would be no way to stop what would happen next. There’d be sex, lots of it. The thick bulge of his erection imprisoned in the cut offs left her in no doubt. The immediate pulse of response between her thighs, insistent and demanding, made a silent plea.

      Teeth gritted, she fought off the swell of desire and the sheer physical need for him. He’d find out she was no easy lay. Pivoting away, she dug her toes into the sand and thrust off, running fast. The lure of him called her back. A powerful enticement, but she ignored it. Pumping her thighs, she zigzagged over the sand, breathing fast. Could he catch her, a high school sprint champion?

      He wanted her, but she’d outrun him. Grinning, she glanced over her shoulder. Eyes glittering, he ran, less than an arm’s length away.

      Too close.

      Magnus reached out for her, which stole a fraction from his pace, and she surged ahead. Desperate to win, she welcomed the flash of adrenaline through her muscles. A tingling explosion of power brought the swaying palm trees a lot closer and left the sound of his breathing behind.

      Panting hard, she looked for him, but he’d gone. Crouched, on her hands and knees, she puffed and sucked in air. She ought to find the time to train more often. A fresh warmth rose in her chest. No doubt shamed in defeat, Count Johansson had gone back to his Gothic mausoleum. Disappointment stung her, but she squashed it. She’d not really wanted him to capture her. Heck, why would she want something that crazy? He’d get the message and figure out he couldn’t mess with her. “I’m not so easy to catch,” she said. “Ohh!”

      “But you can’t run quick enough for long enough, can you?” he said, breath hot on the back of her neck. The fresh, citrus cologne he used surrounded her. He yanked her toward him with one muscular arm that gripped tight around her midriff. A swift haul in, and her feet dangled for a second. Excitement rushed down her spine and a flush of desire pooled in her loins. The male scent of him filled her, drove her heartbeat to a rare wild rhythm and set her nipples throbbing into hot rigid tips, so anxious was she for his first touch on her breasts. A soft, blissful groan stole from her at the warmth of his open mouth pressed against her throat. He sucked, hard.

      “Oh God. Yes,” she said. Her knees buckled as he stroked his wide palm over her breasts, smoothed down to her hip over the flimsy sarong and licked

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